


No Heroes

by redhowler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, M/M, Mentor Voldemort (Harry Potter), Mind Manipulation, Moral Ambiguity, No character bashing, Psychological Torture, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Starvation, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29941728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhowler/pseuds/redhowler
Summary: "Harry Potter... is mine."Harry fought the urge to protest against that.Voldemort took a graceful step forward, the air around him clinging close and darkening as if he had called the shadows to accompany him. "Mine to harm," he continued, his voice a soft, sibilant hiss. Something in Harry was drawn to the softness of his tone, something buried deep inside his chest that he couldn't identify. "Mine to conquer. Mine to defeat. Mine to torture. Mine... to kill."Red eyes bore into green, staring intently as if peering into his very soul."And mine..." His magic brushed against Harry, nearly suffocating with its potency, choking him and binding him all at once, marking him for a fate he never wanted. "... to decide when to kill."After Harry's daring escape from the graveyard, the Dark Lord discovers what the boy truly is: a piece of his soul. Five months later and Wizarding Britain is under his rule, Albus Dumbledore is forced into hiding, and a green-eyed boy is slowly wasting away in the deepest dungeon he could find-- just as he did for ten long years. Now all that remains is to figure out what to do with him.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 16
Kudos: 112





	1. The Graveyard

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this, thank you so much, it really means a lot to me! I'm not very experienced with fanfiction writing but I decided to give it a whirl, so here we are. Hopefully, it's worth reading, and if it's not, thanks for giving it a shot anyway.
> 
> Slight warnings: There is going to be a lot of torture, especially in the first half. Starvation is a big one, and occasionally there will be more graphic methods in use. If reading about blood or gruesome injuries makes you squeamish, I'd recommend skipping that part (I'll put warnings above chapters). 
> 
> I'm not too sure if there's going to be smut. I don't have this fic's storyline set in stone yet, so there's a lot of room for change, and I can already tell you that it's going to be a long time before Harry and Tom start to trust each other, or even enjoy each other's company. It's a slow build-up, hopefully not too bad.
> 
> Again, thank you for reading!

The graveyard remained the same after the boy's sudden departure, though the Dark Lord felt like something significant had changed, invisible to the eye as it may be.

As he strode through the ominous fog towards the grave of the father he himself had murdered, he stretched out his senses with the unfamiliarity and tentativeness of a newborn, testing out the magic that he had long forgotten the true feeling of.

He barely noticed the lines his followers had formed, their backs perfectly straight and their heads bowed down to him, some touching their foreheads to the floor without a hint of shame. 

He briefly wondered if it was out of respect or fear before coming to the conclusion that it did not matter.

Nagini had arrived. She slithered on the ground beside him, as silent as her master's footsteps. The Dark Lord felt the familiar stirring in his mind as the connection between them sparked to life, amplified by the recent regaining of his body. He halted in front of his father's grave, his eyes caressing the wretched muggle name he so despised. Nagini curled up at his feet.

It was quite gratifying, he had to admit, that the bone of his muggle father had been the one used in the ritual that brought Lord Voldemort back to life. One last insult to the man who had abandoned him and his mother, though Voldemort didn't particularly care for either of them.

He glanced up at the sky, wondering if such a place did exist where the dead could observe the living, and thought of what his father would think of him now.

Amusement flared in his chest at the thought of the horror likely to be dawning in his father's eyes if he was watching now.

Horror, perhaps, at the power that had been exhibited in this very place, in the place where his gravestone had stood erect nearly ten minutes ago. How the Dark Lord had cheated death, how his forces still remained loyal and obedient in the many years he had been without physical form, at how he had overcome the supposed power of _love_ that Dumbledore insisted on preaching about.

How he had managed to lay his hands on the boy he had been after for _so long._

A flicker of a smile crossed his face and, as if to assure himself of his capabilities, his eyes slid shut as he reached out with his mind, following the connection - a thread of silver branching in between him and his beloved Horcrux. Nagini's mind was open to him as it always had been and he opened his eyes again, this time seeing not through his vision but _hers._

He sighed in content, savoring the feeling of her mind so close to him, closer than any mind had been to him for over a decade.

There was that pathetic excuse for a man, Quirrel, he supposed, but his mind had been weak, vile, easy to conquer with just the slightest bit of pressure applied. With Quirrel, there had been no acceptance, no true willingness to serve the Dark Lord aside from perhaps a few buried feelings of greed for what could be given to him as a reward. _Repulsive._

He withdrew from Nagini, pleased with the fact that his powers had not diminished over the course of his recent existence - that horrible state of being half-conscious, half _alive._ No matter now. He had what he wanted. 

He had returned from the dead just like he had intended and there were things that needed to be taken care of. He was on the brink of turning around to issue the first orders he had in mind before he felt another stirring. Out of habit, he glanced towards Nagini, even though he knew it could not be her. 

Then what-- _who--_ was it?

On an impulse, he stretched his mind out the way he had with Nagini, following another thread, this one of glistening red and gold, to its end. It took longer than it had with Nagini. A small force poked against the surface of his mind, a pitiful resistance that he easily broke past. He threw himself into the light that was waiting for him on the other side, opening his eyes, heart racing with the anticipation of what he was about to see.

More light, at first, though not the divine, unearthly one he had seen at the end of the thread. It was pale yellow, and there was a man shuffling about in front of him with a distinctive swiveling eye.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, felt the person on the other side's eyes narrow as well, and studied the man. He realized it was his loyal servant, the Death Eater who had brought Harry Potter to the graveyard as he had instructed months ago, and not the bat-crazy Auror everyone somehow revered. His words were muffled and Voldemort felt his mouth moving of its own accord, possibly the person he was partially possessing responding to Barty Crouch Jr. His legs twitched. The body was lifting itself up, but Crouch reached out a hand and shoved him back down with unnecessary force.

Then, slowly, the words cleared, and a voice reached the Dark Lord's ears.

"Karkaroff?" There was a guffaw of laughter bordering on manic. "Karkaroff fled tonight when he felt the Dark Mark burn upon his arm. He betrayed too many faithful supporters of the Dark Lord to wish to meet them... but I doubt he will get far. The Dark Lord has many ways of tracking down his enemies."

Indeed, he did.

The words issuing from his own mouth were jumbled, incoherent, but it sounded young. There was no gruffness to this voice's tone, no heat--it didn't feel like there was any emotion at all, actually. Perhaps this young man was in shock? He just needed to wait a few more moments, for when he could fully understand the young man, and then he would know for sure.

"No," Barty was saying, his face mocking and smug. Voldemort felt a spark of distaste. No one had looked at him like that since the orphanage. "No, he didn't. It was I who did that... I assure you I did." He drew out his wand, pointing it towards Voldemort's chest. The eye that didn't truly belong to him began moving around more rapidly, either in growing excitement or nervousness. "He forgave them, then? The Death Eaters who went free? The ones who escaped Azkaban?"

"What?"

Voldemort stilled.

"I asked you," Barty continued, "whether he forgave the scum who never even went to look for him. Those treacherous cowards who wouldn't even brave Azkaban for him. Faithless, worthless bits of filth who were brave enough to cavort him in masks at the Quidditch World Cup, but fled at the sight of the Dark Mark when I fired it into the sky."

What was Crouch _doing?_ He was giving everything away before Voldemort had given the go-ahead. Everything away to this... Voldemort fought against his warring conclusions as he considered the young man, no-- _boy,_ if his suspicions were correct, whose mind he was currently sharing. The chances of him being correct were low, practically impossible, but he knew that voice anywhere. He had heard it not an hour ago.

_"You_ fired... what are you talking about...?"

"I told you, Harry..."

Voldemort tuned out the rest of what Crouch was saying, eyes flaring in disbelief at the given confirmation. _Harry Potter._ Connected to him through his own mind, a thread branching between them that was as strong, if not _stronger_ than Nagini's. He shook his head slowly, distantly aware that Harry's head was shaking with him (but of course Harry would be in disbelief at what Crouch was now revealing to him, so there would be no suspicions raised on the boy's end). 

How was this possible? Was it a side effect of the ritual he had had Wormtail perform? Anger suddenly surged through him. Had Wormtail messed it up somehow? Oh, if he did, he would be _begging_ for death by the time the Dark Lord was through with him.

However... this did present certain... _opportunities._ It hadn't been particularly easy, but it also hadn't been difficult to slip into the mind of the Boy Who Lived. He doubted Harry even knew what was happening and even if there was a chance that he would, these weren't normal circumstances--Crouch was making his deceit known and Harry was in no normal state of mind with everything that was happening.

"The Dark Lord didn't manage to kill you, Potter, and he so wanted to." Crouch was closer to Harry now, his normal eye crazed and frantic. "Imagine how he will reward me when he finds I have done it for him. I gave you to him--the thing he needed to regenerate--and then I killed you for him. I will be honoured above all other Death Eaters. I will be his dearest, his closest supporters... closer than a son..."

Perhaps Crouch needed to go, after all. Lord Voldemort had no use for idiots.'

"The Dark Lord and I," Crouch sneered, towering over the young boy, "have much in common." Voldemort raised an eyebrow faintly. "Both of us, for instance, had very disappointing fathers... very disappointing indeed. Both of us suffered the indignity, Harry, of being named after those fathers. And both of us had the pleasure... the very great pleasure... of killing our fathers, to ensure the continued rise of the Dark Order!"

"You're mad," Harry was saying, "you're mad!"

"Mad, am I?" He was shouting now. Voldemort shook his head, slowly realizing what Crouch intended to do. Why he had pulled Harry into this abandoned classroom--the room meant for the real Alastor Moody, by the looks of it. For all he claimed to be a devoted follower, he was going to steal the kill meant for his master without a second thought.

Voldemort looked down, felt Harry's head go down along with him, and realized that drawing the boy's wand would be a futile effort. Harry wasn't fast enough, not like Voldemort.

"We'll see! We'll see who's mad, now that the Dark Lord has returned, with me at his side! He is back, Harry Potter, you did not conquer him--and now--I conquer you!"

Crouch opened his mouth, leveling his wand, and even without the use of Legilimency. Voldemort knew what spell he was about to cast.

The same one little Harry Potter had somehow survived as an infant, back when Voldemort had been at the height of his power. He was going to kill him. And he knew that Harry Potter was the Dark Lord's to kill, not his!

_"Stupefy!"_

Voldemort's vision was suddenly flooded with a blinding red light, flooding into the room from the force of the spell. Crouch, much to his satisfaction, had been blasted back. Harry turned around and Voldemort was able to get a good look at the three newcomers. He recognized Minerva McGonagall (though she looked much older now than when they'd been at Hogwarts together), Severus, and _Dumbledore._

His nostrils flared and hatred's familiar warmth seeped into him at the sight of the old and grey professor. Headmaster now, apparently. Voldemort should have predicted he'd get the job--he had half the wizarding world eating out of his right hand and the remaining half under control with the other.

Dumbledore's face almost matched Voldemort's level of rage.

No infuriating twinkle in his blue eyes, no friendliness, just cold,  _ cold _ fury. And how Voldemort  _ loved _ to see it. To know that he had pushed hard enough to make the old man’s calm demeanor finally slip… 

As if sensing Voldemort’s thoughts, Dumbledore’s head suddenly seemed to whip around to Harry while Severus and McGonagall busied themselves with tying Barty Crouch Jr. up. Blue eyes, like chips of ice, narrowed at Harry, staring straight into his eyes and Voldemort felt just the tiniest nudge at the forefront of the young boy’s absolutely defenseless mind. He stilled, but Dumbledore seemed to think better of invading his beloved golden boy’s mind, retracting slowly but never wavering in his gaze. 

Blue met green, but at that moment, it was almost like blue met red. Dumbledore didn’t seem to be looking at Harry at all--it was almost as if he  _ knew _ that Voldemort was watching from behind Harry’s eyes. His eyes narrowed.

“Sir?” Voldemort was saved from further scrutiny by the question that left Harry’s lips. His brow was furrowed, no doubt wondering why Dumbledore was staring so intently, and  _ angrily _ at him. He might have never seen Dumbledore look this way, and to be the subject, the focus, of that emotion must be confusing indeed. 

Dumbledore blinked, coming back to himself, and gave Harry a small smile of apology before turning to Crouch. 

It was then that Voldemort decided to take his leave. 

He withdrew from the boy’s mind, easy as moving a hand backward, and the view of Tom Riddle Sr. 's gravestone came back into focus. Nagini was still curled around him, hissing softly with what sounded almost like concern. 

_ “ Master… _ _”_ she spoke, slithering out from beneath him. _“_ _ The others were beginning to worry. They wondered if something was wrong .” _

Voldemort knew that was also Nagini’s way of expressing her own worry for him, though she would never admit it. _“_ _ Nothing’s wrong, Nagini. I’ve just discovered something quite… extraordinary .” _

_ “ Oh ?” _

He smiled, slow and smug, as he thought to all he had just witnessed. He felt again for the connection between him and Nagini… and sure enough, he found the second thread once more--the ethereal link of gold and red that linked him to Harry Potter himself. Exactly the same as Nagini’s in structure--and then he knew. 

The realization struck him and for the first time in years, his knees felt weak. There was only one explanation for this connection, after all, one he didn’t think was possible. 

He thought back to the research he had engrossed himself in while at Hogwarts. Back to the information he had weaseled out of Horace Slughorn after a Slug Club meeting.

It was impossible, but it was also true. And now, with this new information, getting the boy out from Dumbledore’s protection would be as easy as breathing. Then the boy would finally be his. 

_ “ Harry Potter… is a Horcrux .”  _

He didn’t bother with the link for another month, until he was absolutely sure that Dumbledore had left Harry Potter undisturbed. The boy would be taken back to his muggle side of the family apparently, the relatives of his mudblood mother. 

Voldemort could not say he was surprised at Dumbledore’s decision to leave the boy here. There, Harry would have grown up with little to no exposure to the wizarding world. He would have had no knowledge of his fame, there was no chance for it to go to his head. 

He would have been  _ pure _ when he finally entered his first year at Hogwarts. A blank slate for Dumbledore to paint on, to influence, to mold into what he really wanted the boy to be--a weapon to use against Voldemort when he inevitably returned to power. And Dumbledore wasn’t stupid, he would’ve known that Voldemort had not been killed that night on Halloween. 

It was cold of the headmaster, callous even, but Voldemort wouldn’t have expected anything less. Harry, on the other hand, would have. Severus had informed Voldemort about the boy, who his close friends were, his relations with the teachers, what he was skilled in and what he was dreadful in (apparently Potions was not a strong suit of his), and even his experience with his relatives during the summer. 

From what Voldemort had gathered, or inferred rather from the little information Severus was able to scrounge up, it wasn’t very good. But perhaps that was what Dumbledore had been intending. To make himself the most prominent elder figure in Harry’s life, to give the boy someone to look up to right off the bat. 

Because a boy like Harry, a boy who had lost his parents and hadn’t known anyone who loved him up until his first year at Hogwarts... a boy like that yearned to be _wanted._

“My Lord?” 

“Ah, Lucius.” Voldemort spun around, dark eyes meeting grey. Retrieving Harry would be a delicate process, a process made harder if he appeared to Harry’s relatives assuming the form he had taken in the graveyard. 

Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle, however, would raise few concerns from them. He could probably convince them he was just dropping off the morning paper or something along those lines, for people tended to trust him easily back when he had that face. 

“Is everything ready for tonight?”

“Y-yes, My Lord,” Lucius dipped his head, too cowardly to meet the Dark Lord’s gaze head-on. Not like Severus or Bellatrix did. “Everything is ready but... but I have to ask, My Lord... why bring the boy here? It seems illogical, he and Draco are hardly friendly, we have had no past association with the boy...”

_ Not even when you indirectly gave him my Horcrux, Lucius? _

Voldemort regarded him carefully. Just his presence had reduced the cunning, silver-tongued head of the Malfoys to nothing but a spluttering mess. Had he really seen potential in this man once upon a time? Even if he had, it was long gone by now. The man disgusted him, how he lived with himself Voldemort could not begin to fathom, but for now, he had his uses. 

His Manor, for example, had been used as a base of sorts for the Death Eaters. And whenever the Ministry decided to pay the Manor a little visit, Lucius’s spies (and therefore the Dark Lord’s spies) had already alerted them. Voldemort and the others were gone without a trace by the time the officials arrived. Then business would continue and the Ministry, satisfied with their findings, would leave them alone until they got suspicious once more. The cycle repeated itself but Voldemort was never found. 

It was amusing, really, to see just how things had unfolded in the weeks following his return. Harry had no doubt informed everyone he knew that the Dark Lord had returned... but no one seemed to believe him. It was  _ pitiful _ _._ The Minister for Magic himself was suppressing the rumors as if his life depended on it. He was doing all of Voldemort’s work for him and he hadn’t even had to say a  _ word _ _._ Things were working out much better than he expected. 

“What is it that you intend to do with him, My Lord?” Lucius stammered.

Voldemort tilted his head to the side in consideration. There were many ideas that had popped into his head when he had asked the same question to himself weeks ago, back in the graveyard he had been reborn in. 

Keeping Potter locked up was a given. Perhaps slowly torture him, bring him to the brink of death just as he had done to Voldemort when he was an infant. Vengeance was sweet, after all. But only to the  _ brink _ of death. The Dark Lord didn’t want to kill his Horcrux. 

Here, at Malfoy Manor, Potter would be away from everyone, the public,  _ Dumbledore _ _,_ anyone that wished to end his life. Here, Voldemort could protect what was rightfully  _ his  _ and keep his plan for immortality intact. Here, Potter would stay and Voldemort’s worries would be put to rest. And when he had the boy, no one would be able to stop him. 

Everything was falling into place perfectly. 

Lucius took the Dark Lord's silence as a chance to elaborate. "I-If I may, My Lord... It seems like you don't want to kill him anymore, why bring him here if you did? Do you wish to... to torture the boy? I do not understand-"

"And that does not come as a surprise, Lucius," Voldemort drawled, ignoring Lucius' flinch away from him. It would be a miracle for Lucius to grow a spine, he thought. "Not to worry, I won't be requiring your services with him. You, your wife, and your son will take no part in it." His lips curled as he swung around to face the pale-blond man, his tone mocking now. "Is that what your concern is? Your son? Don't want poor _Draco_ to get caught up in all this?"

"I believe I expressed my reservations on his involvement in these matters, My Lord..."

"Pity, I couldn't understand what you meant through all the weeping, Lucius. Would you like to say it again right now, when you have my  _ full _ attention?"

Lucius immediately took a step back. It satisfied the Dark Lord to see it. Even when his master was taking the form of a teenager, he still cowered in fear. No, dear Lucius would not dare try to argue with Voldemort right now. As pathetic as Lucius was, he did have a respectable sense of survival. And bringing Draco up at that moment would surely end up with Nagini feasting on his dead carcass. "F-f-forgive me, M-My Lord." His head sunk inhumanly low, his chin bumping against his chest. "With your permission--"

"Leave," Voldemort said, waving a hand flippantly. He was not in a particular mood for company anyway. Not when he was relishing in the fruitfulness of his plans, of his sacrifices.

The sun gleamed from the horizon. A new dawn was on the way.


	2. Birds Born In Cages

_Dear Padfoot,_

_I hope you're doing okay. Professor Dumbledore mentioned that you had a safe place to lay low for a while. I'm happy for you, really, if there's anyone who deserves a little peace and quiet, it's you. I'd love to visit someday, see you in person if there's ever a chance to._

_~~I'm alright.~~ I'm going to be honest with you, I don't really know what I'm supposed to do with myself. Yeah, I keep telling people--Ron, Hermione--that I'll get better soon but the truth is I don't know if I am. Dudley and I once watched this war film when we were younger, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia never caught us, back when we got on alright. It mentioned something about survivor's guilt. I'm not Hermione so I don't know if my assumption is accurate, but I think that's what I'm going through._

_I don't think I'm supposed to be here. Maybe that sounds like I'm being dramatic or something, but that's just how I feel. Maybe if I'd been faster in realizing where we were, what was going to happen, I could have gotten us out of that ~~fu~~ graveyard. Before Wormtail showed up. Then maybe I would be able to say 'I'm fine' and for once it wouldn't be a lie. Because I would have saved someone for once, not watched someone die in front of me like always. Mr. Diggory would still have his son._

_I'm scared. Everyone expects me to do something about Him, but the Minister didn't even believe that he's back when I told him. I feel like people think I have a solution, but I don't have one. I'm not strong enough to beat Him. He's smarter and loads more powerful than I could ever hope to be. Even Dumbledore acts like he doesn't know what to do around me anymore._

_I can't shake this feeling that my luck is about to run out._

The quill snapped.

Harry set it aside with a grimace, ignoring the specks of ink that had made their way to his bedsheets with the breakage. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand.

"Incendio," he murmured. Flame shot from the tip of his wand and danced across the parchment, burning it to a brown crisp. With another flick of his wand, he banished the remains, trying to ignore the frustration building in his chest.

That was the fourth letter he had written and then promptly burned. Nothing was coming out right, he found. The words weren't doing what he wanted them to. He wanted to be vague, to assure his godfather that he was doing perfectly fine--Sirius had enough on his plate as it was--but when the quill met the parchment, it all came tumbling out.

"That's bloody fantastic," he muttered to himself.

The door opened. Harry glanced over his shoulder and felt his heart drop into his stomach. 

He turned around, shoving his back to the newcomer. A part of him, one that Aunt Petunia had trained into him, screamed that he was being impolite and disrespectful. He quieted that voice by shouting back that he did not give _a flying f--_

"Harry..." Dumbledore was unsure of what to say, and Harry couldn't blame him. He knew Dumbledore meant well, that he was only trying to get Harry to talk because apparently, that made things easier to process. But Harry didn't want to _talk_ about it. He didn't want to _think_ about what happened. "We need to talk."

"I'm late for the train, Professor," Harry said shortly. He grabbed his wand and shoved it into his pocket, determined not to make eye contact with the headmaster. "Maybe we can pick this up another time. I appreciate your thoughtfulness in coming here, though. Glad you had the time to."

He was being rude. He knew that. He also didn't care. 

Ever since that encounter with Barty Crouch Jr., Dumbledore had resolved to keep his distance from Harry. Harry didn't really mind, at least he thought he didn't, but it did confuse him. It felt like he had done something wrong. Like he had let the headmaster down. 

But what was he supposed to have done? Not fall into a trap? Kind of hard when it was the Dark Lord himself, the most cunning wizard in Britain, masterminding a plan to get you where he wanted you to be. Not be part of a ritual to resurrect Lord Voldemort? Oh, like he _consented_ to have his arm split open by the man who sold out his parents.

And today of all days, the last time they would see each other before the next term started, Dumbledore had finally decided that Harry was worth his time.

"I hope you have a good summer, Harry," Dumbledore settled on. He sounded weary, _exhausted--_ and Harry reckoned he would be. Everyone was in hysterics about the return of Lord Voldemort and Dumbledore looked like the only one who was fighting for the truth. Harry felt a bit sorry for him, but then again, he was in that same boat. "I am very sorry about what you have had to endure."

Harry scowled. A wave of anger crashed into him, so large and dangerous that it surprised him. Had Dumbledore's voice always aggravated him to this extent?

"Have a good summer, Professor," Harry said. Then he walked through the open doorway, never once meeting his headmaster's stare. He could feel it, though, burning into the back of his neck like another scar.

He didn't look back.

*

_"Harry."_

Green light flooded his vision, searing through his retinas. His vision was ripped away from him, leaving him stranded in a world of black hues. Shadows sifted through the darkness, hazy and grain-like. A pressure formed against his eyes. Like he was in a sea of dark water with his eyes wide open. 

Something brushed his shoulder. Then his leg. Then the middle of his back. A gasp escaped from his lips before he could help it, sharp and loud compared to the silence he was in. 

He hadn't even heard anything move. But there it was again. Something touched him, caressed him almost. Distantly, as if in a body he should be in but _wasn't,_ there was pain, but far away as it was he didn't feel it.

He didn't understand what was happening. He tried to recall, to stretch his memory back to the last thing that happened. He had gotten off the Hogwarts Express after a long, awkward train ride with Ron and Hermione. That had definitely happened. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been there waiting for him. 

Uncle Vernon had a new car from the drilling company he worked for. He had explained it to Aunt Petunia on the way back. She had gushed about the delightful red color, the dashboard, the rearview mirror, to the extent that Harry had begun to wonder if she was being genuine or if she was just saying that for her husband's sake.

Then Uncle Vernon had caught Harry staring. The road they were taking wasn't right. There weren't any houses coming into view, not a building nor a power line in sight. Trees instead took their palace, their colours different variants of his eye color, leaning in ominously as if escorting him to his funeral.

Something was wrong, Harry realized as he thought back on it. His scar started to throb. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to remember what had happened after that.

_"What are you looking at?"_

There had been a 'boy' and 'freak' missing from that sentence. There had been something else, too, but Harry couldn't place it. 

_"Nothing,"_ he had mumbled in response. He had braced himself for the reprimand that was sure to follow. _Don't mutter under your breath around me, boy._ But it had never come. Instead, Uncle Vernon had seemed almost adamant about ignoring him from that point on. He had kept his face turned towards the traffic, his hands clenched rather tightly around the steering wheel as if it was his first time driving with other cars around him. Aunt Petunia had looked rather pale beside him, more so than usual, her cheekbones gaunter than usual and her hands fidgeting restlessly in her lap.

Harry had flicked his gaze up to the rearview mirror to get a better look at their expressions. What he saw had puzzled him. Aunt Petunia hadn't been staring at the traffic at all, or even turning to talk to her beloved husband anymore. Her eyes had been darting around from left to right, up at the sky and down at the road, almost frantically. Like they were being followed.

Something wasn't right. 

These people weren't even _acting_ like Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia.

He had looked up at the man in the driver's seat wearing his Uncle's face, trying hard not to betray his alarm. They had made eye contact, he remembered. Something had risen up from behind him and pressed against his skull. The trees, the sky, everything Harry had in eyesight was consumed with an eerie red.

Then everything after that was a blur. A mass of black, a billowing curtain disguised his recollection, swaying too much with an invisible wind for Harry to grasp it and _pull._ It danced out of his grasp like a half-forgotten dream. 

And now he was here. Alone in this peculiar black room.

His foot nudged something. Harry hadn't even been aware that he was walking. He glanced down but found he still couldn't see. He kneeled down and stretched his hands out, fumbling for the object in the dark like he did with his glasses in the morning. 

The object was cold to the touch. Freezing and eerily smooth. He dragged his finger across it and was met with a soft, silky substance. He frowned, blinking even though he couldn't see. 

And then, suddenly, he could.

His vision returned with a vengeance. The room he was in, chamber more like, was made of shadows that detached in wisps crawling towards him. He shied back instinctively. That was how he remembered the thing by his hand.

He looked down at Cedric's dead body.

Harry screamed in a totally undignified manner and stumbled away, panting, at a total loss for both words and air. His lungs squeezed the breath out of him, crushing his heart in between them with a vicious tide of guilt.

Cedric's eyes were open. Harry wanted to get close again just so he could close them, give the fallen Hufflepuff the peaceful rest he deserved, but something kept him rooted to the spot. The eyes stared at him no matter where Harry angled his head, accusing him even in absence of life.

_You did this._

Harry swallowed with difficulty and tore his eyes away. They were growing wet, unsurprisingly. He must have still been in a bit of shock after what happened.

This is a dream, he thought nervously. He was exhausted during the car ride from King's Cross, he had fallen asleep, and this was just the trauma manifesting in his subconscious. The trauma from seeing his destined arch-nemesis returned from the dead. The same arch-nemesis who murdered a boy Harry ran through a cursed maze with, rewarded the man who sold out his parents, touched him in a way creepy couldn't begin to describe, and forced him into a perilous duel.

 _I'll be fine,_ Harry had told Hermione and Ron during the train ride. He didn't know how they believed him. How could anyone on the _planet_ be fine after that?

"You're just dreaming," Harry murmured to the darkness. "This is all just happening inside your head. That means it's not real."

He hoped.

Maybe Dumbledore would want to know about this dream. Harry wondered if he should write to the headmaster when he woke up. If that would make himself too much of a bother to the old man. He cringed at the thought and resolved _not_ to write a letter.

_"Harry..."_

He whipped his head around to Cedric's body. It hadn't even moved. Besides, the sound had come from the opposite direction as the dead body. Harry grimaced, heart racing again, and swung his head the other way, faltering when his eyes fell on a door.

And before he could brave a single step in that direction, the darkness fell away. Light appeared through the cracks, shining down on him and Harry almost prayed for the pitch-black to return.

There were chains around his wrists.

He yanked against them as he forced his eyes open. It was still dark, he found, but not the pitch-black of whatever room he had been in. He was almost relieved when he spied the stone walls surrounding him. Cedric's body in that horrible dark chamber was a dream, there was no need to worry.

 _Actually,_ Harry reconsidered, lifting his head so he could take in the whole room, _there is every need to worry._

"Welcome, Harry."

Harry's blood went cold.

His mind flashed back to the graveyard, the feeling of being bound against the headstone of Voldemort's father all too real. The chains on his wrists suddenly felt tighter. He pulled on them, frantically trying to... break his wrists, snap the chains, rip them out of the bloody wall, he didn't know--he needed to _get out of here now!_

The tendrils of metal alloy stretched from his wrists to the opposite walls, lifting his arms up to stretch his back and display his chest. Now that he was fully conscious, he realized how sore he felt from the continuous pressure on his torso to keep himself straight. Another chain wrapped around his waist and pinned him to the ground so that he was forced into a kneeling position before the assembly of cloaked figures gathered before him.

He didn't know whose house--Manor, it looked more like--this belonged to, but whoever it was must have been richer than Harry was a hundred times over. The chandelier dangling from a high-domed ceiling must have cost more than twenty muggle cars put together, the sleek black dining table running a few meters away from a grand fireplace and stopping a small distance from where Harry was restrained probably more than that. Fifteen men or women in masks stared at him from their places at the table, their porcelain plates empty and silver cutlery untouched. 

Harry's scar lit up with pain as the room became clearer. 

He bit the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from betraying his inner turmoil, even as foreign emotion blazed through him like a forest fire. Satisfaction. Triumph. Amusement.

He forced himself to look at the head of the table, trying desperately to convince himself that he was dreaming. This, after all, would not be the first dream he had involving the Dark Lord. Sometimes, in those dreams, he was gazing at the scene from the perspective of the victims. It was rare, but it could happen. 

This... was a rare time. It had to be. _I'm still dreaming,_ he insisted. None of this was real. This was just a continuation of his nightmare where he had stumbled across Cedric's cold body. His subconscious had gone out on a whim and decided to throw in another scenario where Harry was chained up... at the mercy of the Dark Lord.

The agony pulsating through him from his scar told him otherwise.

He abandoned his effort to get out of the chain and instead shuffled backward as far as he could, which wasn't far. The chains wrapping around his waist kept him glued to the ground, trapped and exposed. The sharp pulling of the metal against his torso, even clothed, jolted him into a sea of nausea and crowded his vision with black spots.

This was real.

Lord Voldemort was here.

And Harry was in chains. 

He was going to die here.

At least, that's the conclusion that he immediately jumped to.

But Voldemort wasn't even raising his wand.

His Death Eaters at the table were showing small signs of restlessness. Harry wondered how long they had been waiting for him to wake up. 

He looked at all of them, trying to identify their faces, just as he had done in the graveyard, but their masks kept them too well hidden. Al except one, besides Voldemort, of course. A woman sitting by his right side. Her face was pale and gaunt, her cheekbones reminding Harry of someone he knew but couldn't identify. Her eyes were crazed, manic even, as they studied him, her lips spread in a grin so wide and red it could have been extended with slashes from a knife on either side.

Harry wet his lips, trying to keep a clear head. He quickly found that the task was impossible. From the moment he woke up, perhaps around five minutes ago, the panic had not let up. The emotion took control of his figure, possessed him even, until his mind and body were not working of his own volition. Sweat dripped down the sides of his neck, painting him in sticky salts and cool water.

He swallowed, and even that was difficult for him to achieve. He was parched, his throat dry, feeling as if on the verge of collapse. Water. He needed water. And he was hungry.

_You're a prisoner, idiot. Stop thinking about water and food, they're not going to give it to you._

How exactly had he gotten into this situation? He had just been abducted not even a couple of weeks ago and dumped in some graveyard, even he couldn't be so careless as to repeat the same mistake.

Then he remembered how strangely Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been acting. That hadn't been them at all, had it? Someone--Voldemort's followers--had disguised themselves and proceeded to abduct him from right under everyone's noses. _Shit._ What a fine mess he had gotten himself into.

Wait, that wasn't the worst of it. Harry had seen red eyes staring at him before he passed out. Oh _god,_ he had been in a car with _Voldemort._ He had let Voldemort drive him down a _highway_ without knowing that it was him. 

Voldemort had been driving a _car._

This really didn't bode well for him. 

And Harry was all alone. Again.

_Shit._

Calm down, he thought angrily. His eyes were burning and he _hated_ that. Whatever happened, he was not going to cry. Uncle Vernon always hated it when he cried.

He just... needed to wait. Someone would come to find him.

Dumbledore.

The thought of the man and his twinkling made Harry's heart soar with hope. 

And then it plummeted soon afterward when he remembered how distant the man had become after Harry's return from the graveyard. Would Dumbledore even be looking for him anymore? Was Harry even important enough to look for now that he had messed up and participated (unwillingly) in a ritual to resurrect the _Dark Lord?_

_Voldemort's going to kill me._

The thought was strangely comforting. At least there was the chance that he might make it quick. If there was one lesson that Harry remembered from Moody's... no, that wasn't actually him--Barty Crouch Jr.'s Defense Class, it was the one where he showed them the Unforgivables. 

The killing curse had stood out to Harry in particular, for obvious reasons, given his parents' untimely deaths. But what had struck him was how _quick_ it had been. He always had this image of Voldemort torturing his parents before finally killing them, that the killing curse was the equivalent of the pain induced from a muggle weapon, like a bullet to the chest or a knife stab. It wasn't. It was just... One flash and you were gone.

"Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived..."

Harry lifted his chin, determined to face his death head-on, without fear. There was no escaping from this one, not like the other times he had encountered Lord Voldemort. This was like the graveyard all over again. his only chance of escaping this time wasn't with talent or skill, he certainly didn't possess either one except a talent for getting kidnapped apparently, but _luck._

"Voldemort," Harry acknowledged with a whisper. He was met with sharp intakes of breath from the cloaked followers.

At last, the serpentine figure with gleaming red eyes rose from his seat at the table. His chair was more ornate than the others, high-backed and dark, elegant like a throne fit for a king. It really was a throne, Harry realized with a barely-restrained snort. Of course Voldemort would design one for himself. Anything to add to that massively inflated ego of his. 

"How does it feel, _Harry..._ " Voldemort stalked over to him, his strides elegant and graceful like an ethereal demon summoned from the darkest pit of hell. He took his time as he walked, content to keep Harry anticipating and fearful of his approaching nearness. "... to know that no one is going to come and save you? To know that you've been abandoned by those you thought your most loyal? Dumbledore and his fools don't even notice anything is out of place."

Harry said nothing. Not because he was petrified by fear, he insisted to himself.

"That is the fate you condemned me to," Voldemort hissed, his syllables drawn out and harsh like Parseltongue. "I was forgotten by the world who were all too eager to move on with their lives, by my followers who once swore to me that they would remain loyal, by those who I believed and cared for me."

Harry couldn't resist looking over Voldemort's steadily approaching figure. The followers in masks suddenly appeared more human, shuffling nervously and avoiding each other's gazes. Exactly how they had appeared in the graveyard when Voldemort had approached this same topic. He wondered how long it would be before these Death Eaters were back in their Lord's good graces.

"And now... you're going to know it, too."

"They followed you out of fear," Harry said, turning his focus back to Voldemort. "That's not true loyalty, that's just insurance that they'll cower before your feet. My friends are by my side out of--"

 _"Love?"_ Voldemort mocked. When Harry didn't respond, he made a tutting sound heavy with disapproval. "Dumbledore really has done a number on you, hasn't he? What else has he told you? That you will defeat me with the power of _friendship?_ That you are stronger because you _care_ about people?"

The Death Eaters took that as their cue to burst out into laughter. It reminded Harry of Uncle Vernon's chortles whenever a younger Harry had asked for new toys after seeing Dudley get some. The sneer was visible behind the joyous sounds, condescension bleeding from its tone.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me that you feel stronger than me, the great Lord Voldemort."

Harry immediately opened his mouth out of spite to say exactly that. The words got caught in his throat.

Voldemort's smirk was slow and satisfied. "There we are," he murmured, soft and sympathizing as if he was trying to comfort Harry after he had been stumped. It felt so unnatural; this monster could not possibly care about anything other than himself. "Once we are finished here, I am going to lock you up in the darkest dungeon this Manor holds. Behave yourself and I might even let you out for a day. Until then... you will stay here and _rot,_ just as I did in that half-life I suffered for nearly a decade. Should I keep you in here for a decade, Harry Potter?"

Panic closed Harry's heart in a cold grip and squeezed. He shook his head hurriedly, not bothering to acknowledge what a pathetic sight he must make for Voldemort. He couldn't stay here--he needed to get out, he needed to find Ron and Hermione, he needed to find Dumbledore and tell him where Voldemort was, he needed to _do something_ other than just stay here shackled up like the helpless little boy Voldemort believed him to be.

His thoughts must have translated to his expression if Voldemort's bout of cold laughter was any indication. 

"You _are_ helpless," Voldemort chuckled. "You... are in my power at the moment, Harry. Your life is in your hands. Do you know what that makes you? It makes you _mine."_

"No, that's not--"

One moment, Voldemort's eyes were sparkling with amusement. The next, that glimmer was gone, darkening into irritation, and his hand shot up to clench around Harry's throat. Harry choked, trying helplessly to move his head away from the hand crushing his windpipe. Red eyes drew closer to him and he felt the slightest nudge against the inside of his head. "Stop--" he gasped, fighting for just _one_ breath but no more were coming; Voldemort would not allow it, as if he was magically keeping every bit of oxygen away from Harry's little spot in the massive room.

The Death Eaters _laughed._

"Did I allow you to speak?" Voldemort asked him, his voice quiet with an underlying threat. Choking Harry was the least of what he was capable of. "I _certainly_ didn't allow you to talk back. The next time you do so... the consequences will be more severe. Do you understand? Keeping you alive has quite the appeal to me--I can cut off your toes and slowly grow them back, crush your fingers in a torturous muggle way instead of with magic so it will _hurt._ I can rip out your tongue to relieve myself of the sounds of your aggravating voice. _I can rip your magic away from you._ I will make _all_ of this happen if you do not learn this lesson."

Harry stared at him with wide eyes.

"Are... we... clear?"

It was difficult, but Harry managed to nod. Voldemort narrowed his eyes but removed his grip. Harry collapsed to the ground--Voldemort must have lifted him up however far his chains would allow at some point--and drew in several lungfuls of air. He swallowed, wetting his throat again.

He looked up again. That horrible, repulsive gaze was still on him. Harry felt like throwing up. 

His vocal cords felt restless. Normally, he would be taunting the Dark Lord at this point, but he knew he had to keep his lips sealed for now. _I can rip your magic away from you._ There was a chance that Voldemort was lying about it, but only a _chance._ Harry couldn't imagine being without his magic; he had grown far too used to it ever since he was told that he was a wizard.

"Beg me for my forgiveness, Harry," Voldemort coaxed. "And maybe I'll grant you some water. Until then... you can go without. Beg me."

Harry gritted his teeth. 

_No._

He would sooner _die_ than beg Voldemort for anything. He would not be kissing the feet of the man who had killed his parents. The man who had made his life a miserable _hell_ ever since he could remember.

This _monster_ in front of him was the reason he had ended up in the Dursleys' care. This monster was the reason Harry would never know what true family, what true love felt like even if Dumbledore claimed that he already knew. He _didn't._

 _"Fuck you,"_ he gritted out.

The female Death Eater actually jumped up from her seat, sending the ornate wooden chair skidding back with a heavy, grating sound. She whipped her wand out and pointed it straight at his face. He knew instinctively that she would not miss, even from her place across the room. Whoever this woman was, she was dangerous. And right now, she was ready to curse him if her Lord gave the word.

"Now, Bella," Voldemort drawled, "play nice. I'm sure he just needs a few more lessons in manners. Lessons that I am all too ready to give."

Harry whipped his head towards the woman. _Bella._ It suddenly struck him where he knew that face from. The resemblance, when he thought of how Sirius had looked fresh out of Azkaban, was uncanny. The same sharp cheekbones, pale beauty, dark eyes. He had seen her on the front of the Prophet once or twice, too. Bellatrix Lestrange.

 _I,_ Harry thought again, _am going to die._

He paused.

Voldemort had been speaking as if he intended to keep Harry here for a long, long time. He said that he planned on making sure Harry stayed alive. Why was that? Harry was supposed to be his mortal enemy--why spare his life if that was the case? Why draw it out instead of trying to kill him right off the bat like he had done every other time they came face-to-face?

"Are you going to kill him, My Lord?"

Harry didn't know who it was, but he felt a surge of gratitude for their daring to ask the question he was curious of the answer to himself. Then he remembered that the man who had spoken was a Death Eater and promptly went back to hating his guts.

"No."

The single word cut through the hushed murmurs of worry rising from the table. Bellatrix froze in her position, her wand arm snapping back to her side faster than Harry could blink. 

"Harry Potter... is _mine."_

Harry fought the urge to protest again.

Voldemort took a graceful step forward, the air around him clinging close and darkening as if he had called the shadows to accompany him. Whatever light there had been cast down from the chandelier dimmed. Harry's heart picked up its pace in a sense of foreboding. 

"Mine to harm," Voldemort continued, his voice a soft, sibilant hiss. Something in Harry was drawn to the softness of his tone, something buried inside his chest that he couldn't identify. "Mine to conquer. Mine to defeat. Mine to torture. Mine..."

He was right in front of Harry again. Harry's vision was consumed with red. The Death Eaters in the background dropped away, fading into the shadows that Voldemort had brought with him. Nothing more than spectators.

"... to kill."

Voldemort raised a hand so pale it practically glowed in the darkness that whirled around the two of them. Harry wanted to shy away, to take a step back, but the chains kept him glued in place. His blood ran cold, adrenaline washing over his bones in shivering waves. 

The Dark Lord's fingers touched Harry's face and moved to cup his cheek in an almost reverent gesture. Harry braced himself for the searing pain that would surely accompany the skin-to-skin contact, but there was nothing. Nothing to indicate that this was some sort of monster in his presence. Just a human hand cradling his face for no apparent reason.

Red eyes bore into his green ones, staring intently as if peering into his very soul. 

"And mine..." Voldemort leaned forward so that his mouth was not even an inch away from Harry's ear. His magic brushed against Harry, nearly suffocating with its potency, choking him and binding him all at once, marking him for a fate he never wanted. "... to decide _when_ to kill."

"What?" Harry croaked out, his voice no louder than a whisper. It didn't make any _sense._ "Why not get it over with now?" He blanched significantly, realizing how that sounded. "Not that I _want_ to die," he said hurriedly. 

_Nice job, Harry._

Voldemort's lips curled into a half-smile. He chuckled, dragging his finger across Harry's cheek as if sculpting his face to his liking. 

Harry couldn't breathe. 

"You're so _innocent,"_ Voldemort crooned. "Do you really think I'm going to let you die so quickly? After what you've done to me? Always a thorn in my side, always resisting me when you should have _known_ better. I offered you a place at my side when you were only eleven, and you rejected it like the fool you have proven yourself to be. You think I will simply grant you an easy death--a _mercy_ \--after you repeatedly defied me?"

"I thought you were a _merciful_ Lord, Tom."

Voldemort smirked. His switch to Parseltongue was seamless, so sudden that Harry had to do a double-take to recognize he was speaking a different language. _"Are you trying to get a rise out of me, Harry? By calling me the name of my filthy muggle father?"_ His words blended back to English. Harry wondered if his Death Eaters knew their Lord's true blood status. "I admire your effort, however pathetic it was. You have my grudging respect after all you have accomplished. You were a far more difficult opponent to defeat than I previously thought..."

"Then why aren't you ending my life?" Harry demanded. "Why not finish what you started? You want to kill me, you've made it your mission to, so why stop now?"

“Oh, I will kill you,” Voldemort agreed, and Harry would have felt a surge of relief if he didn’t know what was coming next. “... But first I’m going to take everything away from you. I’m going to make you watch as I destroy this world you fought for, raze it to the ground, burn it all down, and build it up again. 

“I’m going to make you watch as I snuff out the lives of every single person you care about. I’m not going to let you die a _hero,_ Harry. When I’m done, all your friends will be dead and it will be _your_ fault because you, the prophesied _Chosen One,_ could not kill the great Lord Voldemort, no… I’m going to let you die as you see me.”

A murderer. 

A villain. 

“No,” Harry gasped, hating how much it sounded like a fucking _whimper._ He was not going to beg Voldemort for anything, he would not be weak in front of this monster. 

Voldemort just laughed. 

A thumb brushed against the scar on his forehead, sending a shiver racing up Harry’s spine and something else he could not quite place. Warmth surged through his body, stemming from his scar, surprising him. He gasped again, softer this time, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at this unfamiliar feeling. He was aware of Voldemort murmuring something before the shadows the Dark Lord wore like armor reached out and plunged his world into darkness.


	3. The World Laughs

It was so... _cold..._

The darkness never let up. It was a sentient being, almost, too possessive over what it had enveloped to ever consider letting go. It blanketed his surroundings, covering his eyes in opaque sheets of black until he couldn't tell the difference between opening his eyes and closing them again.

Metal chains, tighter and somehow worse than the ones in the entrance room to the Manor he was being held in, circled his wrists and ankles, binding him in a position similar to the one he'd previously been in. His back was aching, his arms sore and stiff, but the restraints kept him up, merciless as the monsters who shackled him.

His thoughts kept drifting to that look on Voldemort's face just before he blacked out, a gentle finger tracing the outline of his scar. Harry had _never,_ never been more terrified than he had been in that moment. That look in those red eyes--that greed, that _possessiveness_ \--it terrified him, even now, what must have been days after he had been brought down here. It made him feel sick to his stomach, which was already clenching in on itself as if he hadn't eaten for a week. 

He wondered how long he had been in here. Voldemort had caused him to lose consciousness, that much he knew. Harry had been at the complete mercy of the Dark Lord, more so than before with the removal of control over his faculties. Who knew what Voldemort had decided to do once Harry couldn't fight back? Harry could have been asleep for who knew how long. It would explain why he felt like he was back in his cupboard at the Dursleys', no lights allowed inside while he was being punished, his stomach growling viciously. 

The cupboard.

He darted his eyes around with a new panicked fervor, cursing himself for daring to compare the two prisons. It made him feel impossibly worse. He was breathing way too fast, he wasn't getting enough air inside his lungs, he was being punished for his failure again--

He had really lucked out this time. Really. It was like he had spun the wheel of bad fortune every year and this time he had managed to land on the worst one impossible. He honestly preferred a basilisk to this. He would take a Voldemort-possessed teacher any day (except Snape--a possessed Snape was too horrifying to think about) or a dragon, a sphinx, a werewolf--just not _this_. At least in the past, he had actually been fighting something he could see, something that was tangible.

This... this reminded him far too much of the first ten years he had spent with the Dursleys. But somehow _worse._ The hunger, the thirst for water, the need for company coupled with the knowledge that no one would be coming; it was all too reminiscent of his younger years. Harry wondered if Voldemort knew just how much isolation like this would bother him. He wouldn't be surprised if he did--the Dark Lord had proven to know much more about Harry than Harry could have imagined already.

 _How_ had Voldemort even found out where he lived in the first place? Dumbledore had assured Harry in the past that Privet Drive was protected by a plethora of powerful spells along with the residual protection from Lily Potter's sacrifice. The location of Harry's summer residence was a closely-guarded secret, especially from the likes of the Dark Lord. So how...

Had it been Snape who told him?

Harry bit his lip. Somehow, and maybe he was crazy for even thinking about it, he doubted that Snape had given Voldemort his location. It wouldn't make sense. According to Dumbledore, Snape was a double-agent, working for both sides--though Harry had his reservations on which side he showed more loyalty to. Revealing Harry's location to Voldemort was equivalent to turning his back on Dumbledore, and the old headmaster would find out. Everyone would know where Snape's allegiance lied; Voldemort would lose his most valuable spy. Voldemort wouldn't have risked that... would he have?

Voldemort had been annoyingly scarce ever since the Triwizard Tournament. If he went through all this trouble to remain hidden, he wouldn't have asked Snape to reveal himself in such an obvious way. No, Voldemort had found out by other means. Which meant that Dumbledore had another spy on his hands, one he wasn't aware of. One who was privy to Harry's residence as well. Someone he would never suspect. That thought scared Harry more than he wanted to admit.

He thought back to the Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon that had picked him up from King's Cross. If it really had been Voldemort disguised as Uncle Vernon... blimey, his acting was _good,_ frighteningly so. He had nailed the exact shade of purple Uncle Vernon flushed when Mad-Eye threatened him on Harry's behalf. Harry hadn't even been aware that something was off until halfway through the car ride.

Considering that Harry had lived with Uncle Vernon for thirteen years, fooling him took an abundance of skill to pull off. And Voldemort would have only had a short time to perfect Uncle Vernon's mannerisms after he had readjusted to a living body. 

"Creepy bastard," Harry murmured.

Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow emerged. The mass of black emerged slowly, invading the new cutout of faint light that peeked through the iron-wrought gate barring the dungeon cell. Harry didn't notice when he stopped breathing, his heart thrumming in anticipation as the amorphous figure grew larger, swallowing the light whole. His scar wasn't burning, there wasn't even a prickle of pain, but still...

He wasn't afraid of Voldemort. He _wasn't._

That didn't stop him from exhaling in pure relief as a familiar head of blond hair peeked out between the silvery bars. Harry didn't think he had ever been so glad to see Draco Malfoy in his entire life. He never thought he would've felt anything other than disgust or hatred when he set eyes on the pale git. A pale git who was currently carrying a tray of food.

Harry resisted a smile as Malfoy unlocked the gate, fumbling with the tray in his arms as he did so. It nearly tipped over when he brought the key out of his coat pocket. He was clearly unpracticed with this sort of thing. "Didn't have any house-elves to spare, Malfoy?"

Malfoy scowled, knowing perfectly well what Harry was referring to. His family hadn't had a house-elf ever since Harry tricked Lucius Malfoy into setting Dobby free. With a sock of all things. "Please shut up, Potter. It's bad enough that I have to come down here..." He cast a scathing look at the dirt lingering in the corners, the damp spots on the floor where Harry's sweat had dripped. His aristocratic nose wrinkled in disgust. 

"Is this your house?" Harry asked. It fit along the lines of the wealth Malfoy insisted on boasting about at school. "Why the hell do you have a _dungeon_ in your house?"

Malfoy bristled. "It's a _Manor,_ Potter."

"Do you mind letting me _out_ of said Manor?" Harry tried putting on his most charming smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Malfoy merely raised an eyebrow. _What do you think?_ He shut the gate behind him with an audible clang, pulling out the key from his pocket and locking it up again. Harry barely held back a flinch when he heard the click of the padlock. His instincts screamed at him to get out of there, but _there was no way out._ He was trapped.

"Why are you using a key anyway?" Harry forced himself to ask, burying his rising panic deep underground. "I was under the impression that you were a wizard."

"I _am_ a wizard," Malfoy snapped. To prove this, he pulled out his wand and gave it a sharp flick. Two torches on either side of the room that Harry hadn't spotted before suddenly burst into brightness. The orange flame flickered at him, taunting him with the idea of warmth. It took Harry a moment to adjust to the introduction of light.

Harry craned his neck to get a better look at what Malfoy had brought. The chains wrapping around his waist strained, their weight acting as a second form of gravity to pull him back down. He landed on his knees with a shout. 

Malfoy looked like he was trying not to laugh. Harry gave him a dirty look. At least his displeasure at Malfoy's presence was helping him to ignore his fear of being imprisoned this way. Voldemort could be walking on the floor above his head. He shuddered. "Shut up, Malfoy." It didn't come out as strong as he would have liked.

The blond boy's sneer slipped away. Something else took its place. Harry didn't want to think of it as pity. The last thing he needed was _Draco Malfoy_ to feel sorry for him; everyone else already had that covered. "I really thought he was going to kill you, you know."

Hearing it out loud eased something in Harry's chest. He wasn't the only one confused by Voldemort's rather spontaneous decision, then. "I did, too," he said quietly. He almost wished Voldemort did. A decade of torture, of being forced to starve in the dark... He really wanted to believe that Voldemort hadn't been serious about that, but the odds against that were quite high. "The Dark Lord does like his trophies, though."

Harry frowned. That... was an odd thing for him to say. It didn't even feel like his own words in his mouth. 

"Okay, then," Malfoy drawled. He walked closer, his nose scrunching up with every step at the smell of the dungeon. Harry cringed as the plates on the tray wobbled in his hands. If Malfoy spilled his precious food, Harry was going to strangle him. He yanked against his chains halfheartedly, wishing he had his wand. Great. Voldemort probably had it. The image of Voldemort even _touching_ his wand sent ripples of anger through Harry's newfound yet shallow pool of calm. 

"Well, I have no way to get you out of those chains. So I am... going to..." Each word looked like it was physically hurting Malfoy to say. "... to have to spoon-feed you."

Harry's jaw dropped open. 

"Oh good, you know how it works."

"I--What?" Harry suddenly got the impression that he was perfectly imitating a confounded goldfish and promptly shut his mouth. "Shut up. You are not going to spoon-feed me like a _child."_

"I am older than you," Malfoy pointed out helpfully. 

"You had a key for the cell. Why can't you just, I don't know--get a key for these chains, too?" It was as close to escaping as Harry was going to get. Granted, there was still the chain wrapping around his torso, but he would figure out a plan for that when the time came, reckless Gryffindor that he was. "Better yet, why not waste any more time and unlock them with your wand? I think we learned the spell in our first year. _A-lo-ha-mor--"_

"I _know_ what the spell is, Potter," Malfoy snarled. His grip tightened on his wand. For a moment there, Harry wondered if Malfoy was actually going to curse him, but the anger seemed to drain out of the boy soon after. "The Dark Lord made it so that only _he_ can open your chains. And the cell can only be opened with either his magic or this key..." He slid it out of his pocket and twirled it in his fingers. Harry stared at it longingly. "On the chance that your Order friends find you, he doesn't want them to be able to get you out."

It made sense in a depressing way. Harry's shoulders drooped, the trickle of hope he had unearthed slowly dripping away. The sudden sagging of his posture unleashed a flurry of pain in his shoulder blades. "Crap," he whimpered, rolling his back a little to relieve some of the soreness, but it only made it worse.

"Look," Malfoy said uneasily, "I can't get you out of them. No matter how much it hurts. I... I'm sorry."

"Gee, thanks, Malfoy. That makes me feel loads better." Harry glared at him. He snuck a peek down at the tray and scanned over what Malfoy had carried down. A ham and cheese sandwich. He raised his eyebrows at it, a little surprised that the Malfoys would serve a meal so mundane. It felt too muggle to be in their house. Oh, wait, _Manor._ "There's no--He didn't tell you to bring me any water?"

Malfoy shook his head.

Harry clenched his fists. He pointedly stared down at the ground so Malfoy couldn't see how wet his eyes were growing. Helpless. That's how he felt. Not lonely, not scared anymore; he was almost numb to the fear by now-- _Helpless._

_Beg me for my forgiveness, Harry. And maybe I'll grant you some water. Until then... you can go without._

"You're joking," Harry mumbled, understanding dawning on him. "He actually meant that..." Voldemort was going to wait for Harry to kiss his feet before giving him water. He raised his head to the ceiling, ignoring Draco's increasingly concerned stare, and sighed deeply. It helped calm him down, but not nearly enough to make him feel any better.

_He can do whatever he wants to me. I am not going to prostrate myself before the monster who murdered my parents._

"Does anyone know he's back yet?" Harry decided to ask. The change of topic was inelegant at best, which Draco caught onto with a raised eyebrow. The blond bit his lip and peered over his shoulder in the direction of the gate. His shoulders were higher than they normally were, his back rigid and tense.

After around thirty seconds of contemplation, Draco turned back to face Harry. His expression was still worried. Harry blinked when he realized how weary he looked. How had he not noticed it when Draco first walked into the dungeon? It was so at odds with the almost regal air that Draco carried with him at school, the sneers and condescending insults he flung around like flower girls throwing petals at a wedding.

Now, Draco looked... _exhausted._ The areas underneath his eyes were practically purple and his cheeks were pale--more pale than usual; Harry could see his veins standing out in ominous blue branches. His normally perfectly-groomed hair was tousled slightly at the back, not nearly as horrendous as Harry's own bird's nest, but daunting to see on the Malfoy heir nonetheless.

"No," Draco said. "It's... incredible how they haven't figured it out yet. Even the _air_ outside feels different now that he's back, in my opinion. Heavier somehow. Like it's carrying something that has its eye on you all the time, waiting for you to let down your guard." Harry faltered a little at how perfectly he had described the days since Lord Voldemort's return. "But the Minister seems determined on repressing whatever claims Dumbledore tries to spring up. He's terrified, as he should be, but his state of denial isn't helping anyone. Besides the Dark Lord."

Funny how Draco seemed almost... frightened by this prospect. Harry would have thought he would be celebrating by now. His Lord was back, he would eradicate all the muggleborns from society, he would bring glory back to Slytherin's house; it was what Malfoy had undoubtedly been raised to believe and yearn for. So why did he look so _lost?_

"Not everything it's cracked up to be, huh?" Harry offered with a bitter grin. 

"W-What?" Draco shook his head sharply, forcibly clearing his cloud of thoughts. "No, that's not what I meant at all. It's just quite sad to see the once-great Ministry of Magic fumbling around, chasing their own tails, to bury all these rumors. Convenient, too. Better for h... us in the long run."

Harry didn't say anything. 

Draco rolled his eyes, slipping back into his prior manner with terrifying ease. "I'm supposed to make you eat, Potter. It's the Dark Lord's orders."

"And you're only too happy to carry them out?"

 _"Yes,"_ Draco insisted. Harry wondered if he noticed how his voice had taken on a franticedge. "Come on, Potter, don't make this difficult. You want to stay alive, don't you? Better chance of escape later on and all that? You can't get out of here and back to your friends if you're dead from starvation."

That was a valid point, Harry conceded. But it didn't look like Malfoy understood. "When you eat bread, it dries your throat up." Harry nodded towards the sandwich on the plate, trying to ignore how his stomach growled at the mouth-watering sight. "That means I'm going to need water to wash it down. Vol..." Draco flinched. " _He_ said he wanted me to beg him for water. I have no plans on doing that."

"You..." Draco barked out a laugh. He brushed his hair back with his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. "Is it so hard to let go of your dignity once in a while, Potter? Even when it means survival? No one would blame you--even _I_ wouldn't mock you--for choosing your life over your pride."

"And why would I want to do that?" Harry growled. "Why give Voldemort--" This time, Draco jumped several inches off the ground, tossing a horrified look at the gate "--a way to prolong my suffering? He said he wants to kill me eventually, so he can go ahead. I'm not going to let him make it slow. Either I die from starvation, which is a hell of a lot better than what I'm sure he's planned out for me, or he kills me nice and quick."

Draco stared at him, his lips parted in shock. "You... Harry Potter... are a fucking _coward."_

Anger reared its head like a serpent in Harry's chest. He narrowed his eyes, nearly hissing as he snarled, "What did you just say to me?"

"Do you have _any_ idea who you are?" Draco demanded. “You’re not just a person, Potter, you’re a _symbol_ to the whole wizarding world. Surely you aren’t so ignorant that you don’t hear the names they shower you with. People look at you and remember that there is a person capable of conquering a Dark Lord, even if it’s not you personally. They look at you for hope and you’re just going to let yourself _die?_ You die and their hope dies, it doesn’t matter that the Dark Lord’s got you locked up. As long as you stay alive, people will think they have a chance and keep fighting. And don’t whine about how unfortunate it is, that’s just the way it works.”

“It shouldn’t _have_ to be the way it works,” Harry started.

Draco’s voice raised to a shout. “Yeah, well it _is_ how it works, stop complaining about it like a spoiled brat--”

“Oh, so _I’m_ the spoiled brat now? Who’s got fucking _peacocks_ strutting about their front yard, silver dishes and cups, a house with dungeons for some reason…”

“It’s a _Manor,_ Potter!” Draco abruptly shut his mouth and turned his face away. The sudden change shocked Harry into shutting up as well. He bit back the next insulting words that had been on the tip of his tongue and waited for Draco to look at him again.

Why did he seem so desperate for Harry to stay alive? He _hated_ Harry, didn’t he? They hadn’t gone through four long years of school insulting and degrading each other because they _liked_ one another. Malfoy should be rejoicing at Harry’s current predicament. Hell, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he picked up the sandwich and threw it on the ground like Harry was a dog waiting for his next meal. 

Draco sighed heavily and turned to the tray. Without meeting Harry’s eyes, he picked it up and walked over to Harry, setting his knee down so they were both kneeling before each other.

Harry hesitated, some prideful part of his heart screaming at him not to be treated this way, but in the end, his stomach took over and he leaned forward. Draco held completely still as Harry slowly took a bite out of the sandwich, chewing it and swallowing. His throat felt dryer almost immediately. He turned his head away from Malfoy and coughed, nearly choking, spluttering as he fought to swallow. It felt like there was something lodged at the back of his mouth, preventing the food from going down all the way.

“I’ll see what I can do to get you water,” Draco said quietly. “Until then… try to think about what you’re willing to do to stay alive.”

“Why do you care?”

Draco’s eyes got a faraway look in them, the grey in his pupils glazing over. He reminded Harry of Sirius, somehow. His godfather would get lost in memories of better, happier times too; times where things used to be simpler, where the line between black and white wasn’t so blurry, when you didn’t constantly have to look over your shoulder for fear of someone eyeing it like it was their next target.

In the end, Draco just smiled, but there was no joy in it. Harry’s heart ached to see an expression full of such bitterness. “I guess… it’s not everything it’s cracked up to be.” 

He didn’t say another word as Harry finished off the sandwich, coughing unpleasantly as he did so. Harry didn’t offer up another topic either; their strangely-civil conversation had run its course. 

Four days passed before Lord Voldemort returned.


End file.
